


entre nous

by Polexia_Aphrodite



Series: smoke gets in your eyes [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Feels, Friends to Lovers, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, the inevitability and eventual heartbreak of Peggy/Howard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polexia_Aphrodite/pseuds/Polexia_Aphrodite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d spent years in the United States, working with its military, standing at Captain America’s side, but Howard’s brand of Americanness – brash and risky and inventive – took getting used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	entre nous

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little something I worked up for Agent Carter Week over on Tumblr. There's a graphic that goes with it [here](http://hardboiledmeggs.tumblr.com/post/69181786792/heres-the-little-inspiration-graphic-i-used). Hope you like it.

**1951**

It’s no secret that Howard Stark thrives on adrenaline – between his fast cars and fast planes, his predilection for anything that makes his blood pump faster is hardly a secret. It’s something that Peggy has come to understand about him.

And it _had_ taken her a while to understand Howard. She’d spent years in the United States, working with its military, standing at Captain America’s side, but Howard’s brand of Americanness – brash and risky and inventive – took getting used to. 

When she’d first come to the Strategic Scientific Reserve, the two of them had grated against each other constantly, but over the course of the war they had settled into an acceptable rhythm – she came to rely on his discretion and willingness to jump into the fray, and she appreciated that she hadn’t had to fight for his respect, as she had with so many of her colleagues, but instead found that he gave it to her freely. 

Since she joined him as Deputy Director of SHIELD, they’ve been out together on dozens of missions and at first it feels like it used to, when Steve was still alive and the world was clear and full of shiny-bright hope despite the destruction of the war. But after a while it starts to feel like something new – like something they’re making together. 

As they criss-cross the globe, in shadowy, smoke-filled bars and lounges, in quiet hotel rooms and the pristine-white hallways of SHIELD’s regional offices, Howard teaches her to be American, not in the way Steve was, but in his own way. Howard laughs too loud and smokes too much, he touches people when he talks to them and has an archive of endearments that he uses on everyone from dear friends to casual acquaintances.

He’s nothing like Steve in so many ways. But neither is she. For years, Peggy had thought that she and Steve were kindred spirits – devoted to their cause, brutally separated by tragic circumstances. But as time passes, as they become more and more inseparable, Peggy starts to see herself in Howard. It hits her that she has the same craving for danger and excitement as he does – they end too many missions flushed, breathless, and grinning like mad at each other for her to ignore it.

And she sees Howard’s imperfections in herself. The two of them curse too much and drink too much; their disagreements dissolve into heated shouting matches that leave her nerves electrified. She could never have shouted at Steve. He could never have shouted at her.

 

*

 

The first time Howard calls Peggy “ _darling_ ,” the two of them have just shot their way out of a seedy capo’s den in Rome.

They’re on their way back to their hotel when he pulls her into a dark alleyway, presses her up against a stucco wall and kisses her. Peggy lets him, because now that the gunsmoke’s cleared, she’s just as wired as he is. And because Steve never kissed her like this – hot and hidden, with one hand fisted in her hair and the other rucking up her skirt – and she doesn’t want to be reminded of Steve anymore.

“How was that, darling?” he smiles at her when he pulls away. 

Peggy purses her lips and rolls her eyes. She takes his hand and pulls him back to their hotel. She won’t sleep with him, though. She won’t. 

Instead, she keeps him talking all night. There’s a side to him that’s exactly what one would expect him to be – all genius and braggadocio – but there’s something else in him too. He tells her about his dirt-poor childhood in dusty Oklahoma, asks her to imagine him in stained coveralls, with barely enough to eat. He tells her how he talked his way into Yale, how desperately he had scratched and clawed to get everything he has. He smiles through his story – even through the sad parts.

She sees him differently after that – she minds less when he walks next to her with his hand warm at the small of her back, or when he whispers notes in her ear during meetings. They end more and more days shut up in his office, swapping war stories they’ve each heard a thousand times over glasses of gin and tonic.

When he isn’t boisterous and _on_ , Peggy starts to catch him looking at her differently, too – with glances that are guarded, reserved, almost shy. It’s unusual and unnerving, and it makes her think entirely too much about that night in Rome. She never lets herself miss it – the way his hands felt on her, the hot slide of his tongue against hers, the low whine she had pulled out of him when her hips rolled against his – but the memory of it rises, again and again, in her mind.

 _He’s nothing like Steve_ , she tells herself, but instead of repelling her, it’s a comfort. She doesn’t want someone _like_ Steve. The idea of accepting some pale imitation is revolting. What she _wants_ is someone to help her forget the heartbroken girl she was after the war. It takes ages for her to see it, but when she does, it’s all she _can_ see: what she wants is Howard.

 

*

 

In the spring of 1952, they arrive in Istanbul as Mr. and Mrs. Holloway. But their aliases as wealthy art collectors crumble when the smugglers they’re trailing shoot first, forcing Peggy’s hand and exposing them both. After a mad scramble through rain-soaked boulevards and backalleys, the good guys win, thanks to Howard’s ingenuity and Peggy’s straight shooting. They don’t get out without a few scrapes, though, and Peggy takes the worst of it – a graze along her left arm that wets her sleeve with blood, and a bruise on her temple.

As soon as they get back to their hotel room, rain-dampened and exhausted, Peggy disappears into the bathroom without a word. She listens to Howard in the next room – pouring a drink, kicking off his shoes – as she wraps her arm in gauze and draws a bath. She pulls off her clothes – ruined by bullet holes, sweat and rain – and spends a long time letting the hot water and steam pull the ache out of her muscles.

Peggy emerges from the water a new woman – with her makeup scrubbed away, her skin clean and soft, her hair damp and curling at the ends. Her clothes are as good as garbage now, and she kicks them aside, picking up Howard’s robe from a hook, wrapping it around her and tying the sash at her waist. She runs her fingers along the silk embroidery, pulls the neckline up to her nose and breathes in deep; it smells like his aftershave – crisp, clean and musky.

It’s terribly forward, and she can’t say exactly why she does it, except that it feels good to be wrapped up in him like this.

When she steps out from the bathroom, Howard’s stretched out on the room’s double bed. His jacket, vest and tie lie slumped on a chair; his white shirt is rumpled and unbuttoned at the collar. A cigarette dangles from his mouth, sending tendrils of smoke into space above him. He’s spent the last two nights playing the gentleman – sleeping on the cold, tiled floor cocooned in extra blankets – and Peggy can hardly blame him for taking advantage of the available mattress.

He sits up when he sees her, though, and sits up straighter still when he sees what she’s wearing.

“I hope you don’t mind,” her fingers pull at the sleeves where they fall over her hands, but she meets his gaze coolly.

Howard stamps out his cigarette and stands. He crosses the room in a few long strides and stops right in front of her, looking down at her fondly. In the silence that hangs between them, all she can hear is the rain beating against the room’s window

“You’re perfect like this.”

“Like what?”

He smiles and traces her cheekbone with his finger.

“Without all that paint on your face. You don’t need it. Never have.”

Peggy purses her lips and looks at the floor. She never knows how to act when he flatters her like this.

He brings a hand up to her wounded arm, just barely grazing his fingers over the spot where her bandage is hidden under the robe.

“Could have lost you today.”

“You won’t get rid of me so easily,” she gives him a tight smile, scoffs and rolls her eyes, “It’ll take more than hired goons in a Turkish slum.”

“Good,” he pulls her against his chest and it takes her by surprise; all she’s gotten since Rome are chaste, sedate touches, and this feels like so much more. “I don’t do well on my own.”

She tucks her face against his chest, “I believe you.”

“Say you won’t leave me, Peg,” Howard murmurs against her hair, “Let me have that.”

“I—“ she pauses. She wishes she could give him more. She _could_. “I won’t.”

“Always wanted you with me,” the words rumble through his chest; he leans back to look at her with one big hand on each of her shoulders, “Even back in the old days, I always—always _saw_ you.“

His face clouds over. Peggy can see how unsure and flustered he is; for all the flowery words he’s given women over the years, perhaps it isn’t so often that what he says to them is this sincere, and it renders him speechless, for once.

Peggy reaches up, touches her fingers to the pearly buttons at the front of his shirt, dips one finger through a gap in the fabric to feel him – warm through his cotton undershirt. She breathes him in - gin and cigarettes and sweat. He's so close.

She looks up squarely. She ought to be coy – _ladylike_ – but losing Steve startled all the hesitation out of her.

“Take me to bed, Howard.”

He looks at her for a long moment – just long enough for her to raise her eyebrows impatiently – then springs to action. His arms wrap around her waist, his hands spread wide on her back; his mouth is hot and insistent against hers; his tongue teases at the seam of her lips and she opens for him instantly.

Howard walks her backwards until her shoulders hit the wall behind her. His fingers claw at the robe’s sash, pulling it apart and running his hands along her bare stomach, back, breasts. His mouth never leaves hers. The feel of him pressed so tight against her drugs her up – makes her limbs feel heavy and her head feel light.

Peggy yanks at his shirt, jerking it up from underneath his belt, tearing the buttons open and pulling it over his shoulders. He takes his hands off her just long enough to shuck it off his arms and tug his undershirt over his head. She leans against the wall, watching him undress. His torso is tightly muscled, his chest covered with a fine dusting of dark hair. Nothing like Steve. Thank God.

He loosens his belt next, and lets his pants and shorts drop to his ankles. He kicks them off his feet and to the side, and drops to his knees in front of her, like a supplicant in front of an altar. His face is open, his eyes wide and dark. He looks thunderstruck, as though he’s suddenly astonished to find himself in her arms even though it’s been coming for so many years.

Peggy’s jaw clenches. She hates this kind of melodrama, but there’s something unaffected about this. This is who he is, how he is, this man she’s been with for so long – prone to grand gestures and romantic urges. _She_ isn’t like that, she thinks, but then she remembers the last time she saw Steve – that desperate, farewell kiss – and smiles. They aren’t so different.

She lifts a hand, runs her fingers through his thick, dark hair, and sighs when he presses a circle of warm, close-mouthed kisses on the curve of her stomach. He seems so relieved, so wholly _present_ – and it strikes Peggy that it’s a side of him she’s never seen when he’s had actresses or models on his arm. This isn’t how he is with them. This is how he is with _her_.

The thought of that – that he’s _with_ her now, that he’ll surely make love to her tonight (a quick glance downward, past his bare shoulders, past the golden skin of his chest and stomach, lit up in low lamplight, tells her that he’s already hard, flushed, and ready for her) – triggers a rush of heat between her legs. Her hands tense on his shoulders. She needs more than this – more than gentle kisses and reverent sighs.

“I’m not made of glass,” she says, plainly and loud enough to be heard.

Howard blinks and looks up at her, then lets a wolfish smile cross his face. His hand moves across her hip and dips between her thighs. The pads of his fingers slide across slick folds. Peggy gasps; her fingernails bite into his skin as he presses into her, curling his fingers and pumping once, twice.

“Didn’t think you _were_ , darling.”

He stands and pushes her against the wall, with his hands rough on her hips and his tongue tracing the tendons of her neck. His erection presses a hard, searing line against her belly. Just the thought of him taking her like this, pushing aside the robe and lifting her legs to lock around his hips, sends a shot of lust through her, but she wants this to _mean_ something, and she wants him to know it. There’ll be no rutting against the wall. Not _now_ , at least.

“ _Bed_ ,” she pants, shoving his shoulders until he leans back and leads her across the room.

Howard spreads her out on the mattress, with her knees spread wide and her hands over her head. He runs his palms up and down her arms – still caught in the robe’s sleeves, moves his mouth from her lips to her neck, then lower, catching one nipple between his teeth, then running his lips and tongue down the smooth planes of her stomach.

He settles between her legs, with one hand under her backside and another teasing at dark curls. Without warning, his tongue laps against her and her hips buck off of the mattress. Her head tilts back and her back arches, but the minute her eyes slide shut, Howard reaches up and grabs her shoulder. Peggy blinks and looks down at him.

“Don’t. Stay with me.”

There’s a flash of insecurity in his eyes, and Peggy knows what he’s thinking – that with her eyes closed she can pretend that he’s anyone. With her eyes closed, she can pretend that he’s _Steve_. Her brow creases. The idea that she could imagine him away is abhorrent, especially now, when all she wants is _him_. All she wants is this man who isn’t afraid of her, who has spread himself open for her in a way that he hasn’t for anyone else.

“I’m here,” she gasps, “I’m here.”

He nods, satisfied, and lowers his mouth again. He maps out every inch of her with his teeth and tongue and lips, until she’s trembling and incoherent underneath him.

“How— _Howard_ ,” she calls out, squirming underneath him. She can’t see how she can take much more of this: the tense coil of electricity at the base of her spine, and the hot melt between her legs.

“Nearly there, darling,” he hums, adjusting his grip on her hips and sinking his tongue between her folds.

Peggy groans and folds her arm over her face, letting him work her over until she falls apart, curling her toes into the mattress as stars bloom behind her closed eyelids. Howard’s lips seal over the tiny bundle of nerves at the front of her sex, and she can’t stop the low, guttural cry he pulls out of her as she spends. 

When the last tremors fade, she feels him pull away from her, hears him pad across the room, then feels the mattress dip under him when he returns. She looks down at him. He’s kneeling between her legs, rolling on a rubber and flashing her a satisfied smirk.

“Must you look so damned smug all the time?” she manages, but her voice is still too weak for there to be any sting in it.

Howard grins, “Not all the time. But after _that_ , yes.”

He’s still smiling as he covers her body with his, pushing up into her until she feels full, perfect. Howard rocks his hips, and Peggy tries not to wince at the sudden stretch – it’s been entirely too long since she’s gone this far with a man – but he must see it on her face, because he pauses, meets her eyes.

He kisses her – warm and wet and tasting of _her_ – and she weaves her fingers into his hair. Outside, she can hear the rain fall harder, pushed against their window by gusts of wind.

“s’been a while,” he murmurs.

Peggy blinks up at him in surprise, “For you?”

He smiles, a little shyly, “For _you_. Can tell.”

Her eyes narrow, "Not very gentlemanly, are you?"

“Not hardly.”

Howard smiles and kisses her again, his hips rolling against hers until he finds a steady, intense rhythm; his eyes go dark and glassy. Peggy’s fingers clutch at his arms; her ankles hook at the small of his back.

“Tell me you’re mine,” she hears him say, so quietly.

“I _am_ ,” she groans, her thighs clenching around his hips. And it’s _so true_. She doesn’t know how – in what way, exactly – but that doesn’t matter. They belong to each other.

“Tell me—“ she starts, but a wave of pleasure takes her over and the words dissolve in her mouth.

“Yours,” he growls against her shoulder, “It’ll always be you, Peg.”

 

*

 

Peggy doesn’t know how long they sleep, but when she wakes, the sky outside their window is still blue-dark, and the rain still beats a persistent drum against the glass. In the haze of their lust, they had forgotten how tired they were, how wrung out from the mission. Howard sleeps on – she can see his eyes moving behind their lids. 

Somewhere over Belgium, the two of them saved Steve together – saved him from anonymity and waste – but Howard saved _her_ on his own. Maybe she would have pulled herself out from behind that stagnant desk job, maybe she could have kept herself from falling to pieces in a perfectly ordinary life. But he had known her – really _known_ her – and he hadn’t let her do any of that.

She presses her hand against his cheek to wake him. She wants him at least once more before dawn, before they have to fly back to New York. Before either of them have to think about what this _will be_ instead of just what it _is_.

She doesn’t know if the tightness in her chest is love – she’s spent too long trying to forget what that felt like. But it _could_ be. It could be.


End file.
